


Knock Me Down

by SkylarJames17



Series: FREEDOM [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Camaraderie, Military AU, Prequel, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkylarJames17/pseuds/SkylarJames17
Summary: Hercules and Cato's experiences told through Hercules's eyes.A prequel/spinoff to TO FREEDOM.





	1. uno

Cato's favorite color was black because it defied expectations. His mother was Jewish which made him Jewish, which Cato embraced wholeheartedly as another way to defy expectations. Everywhere he went, he was known as “the weird black Jewish dude,” which, though it might offend others to be identified solely by the attributes they do not choose, pleased Cato to no end. Because he was black and he was Jewish and he thought that those two things mushed together were just another built-in way to defy the expectations.

He called himself a rebel. I called him an egomaniac. An enigma (but that might be because he thought the word was so horribly cliche and could only be found was in the romance genre of wattpad [which raises the question of how he knows that]). I called him self-centered. 

I told him that he knew that the things that made him weird made him different, and the things that made him different made him memorable, and the things that made him memorable made him matter.

And when I said this to the freezing desert sky, so cold in fact that we were crammed in a sleeping bag together for warmth, Cato started crying.

I didn’t do anything about it, of course, because we both knew this was not the time to be soft and because the only one I’d ever comforted was my little sister. I just got real quiet and stared at the stars and waited for Cato to get his shit together.

When he got quiet, I asked, “Is your shit together?”

He sniffed and said, “Yeah.”

“Didn’t mean to bruise your massive ego,” I said, joking because if you learn anything in the Marines besides how to kill, you learn how to properly make fun of a buddy, even if he’s crying. Especially if he’s crying.

(I don’t mean that in the way it sounds. We know exactly when to stop. Not before, not after.)

(Except for some, but that’s different.)

“You’re not wrong,” Cato said quietly. We weren’t exactly oblivious to the huge chance that our whole platoon could hear us talking, but they stopped telling us to shut up and go to sleep sometime after we got deployed. “I think I’m the weak link in our group, Mull.”

“No you’re not.” If I’m honest, Cato was a terrible shot, but he was intuitive. He always had these gut instincts when we were going into a situation. This is bad, he’d say, or I think this is okay. He was nearly always right. He’d saved our lives more than once. I didn’t say any of this out loud because it’s weird to talk about these things sometimes. I can’t explain it, really, but I feel like it’s not hard for anybody to understand.

“Mull, I’m gonna die out there. This’ll kill me. When I die, will you tell Ma I love her?”

I had to swallow hard to keep tears or nausea or panic down. I didn’t understand why Cato was talking like that and it made me feel like throwing up my already indigestible MRE to fear that this was one of Cato’s freaky instincts. “You’re not gonna die. If you do, I’ll die with you.”

“No. You’ll go back to New York and make your clothes like God meant you to.”

“Cay. No.”

“Can we sleep?” Cato asked.

I rolled onto my side, tossed an arm over Cato’s stomach, and went to sleep.

 

The next day, I killed someone for the first time. That night was warmer and Cato and I returned to our own sleeping bags. I felt like crying then, but I didn’t. 

No. My tears would have their chance.


	2. dos

My washed-out brown cammies had turned red with blood that ran in rivulets across the frozen, dry ground. I was trying to remember what my brain had forgotten about wounds and I couldn’t so all I did was kneel on the ground with my bare hands feeling a fast pulse of blood spurting out faster than you’d expect.

“Mulligan, the corpsman’s here. Easy. He’s got Hale.”

Thump thump.

“Mull? Did you hear me? Move over and let the corpsman do his job.”

Thump thump.

“No, Mull, you can’t just shut us out right now. Cay, help me out. Pen, help the corpsman.”

Thump thump.

“Alright, buddy, you’re done,” said Cato. I was dragged off Hale and the Navy corpsman replaced me, placing his hands above the wound on Hale’s ruined leg. A leg that will never be functional again. 

I stumbled to my feet and gave Cato a little shove to show that I was still there. “Good, Sarge,” I told Sergeant Owens, someone I’m not really allowed to shove. 

I scanned the scene. The Navy corpsman was keeping pressure on Hale while another guy, Nate Pendleton, who we call Pen, was watching Hale, yelling at him, and occasionally slapping Hale across the face. Ben Tallmadge, or Tally, was sitting on the ground with a stricken look on his face. Will stood behind Tally with his usual blank slate face on, but we all knew he was just watching Tally vigilantly. Will. Always so vigilant. 

“Where you going, Marine?” Pen yelled at Hale, whose eyes were going full fast. “Nope, you’re staying right here in this fucking shithole like you want to be.”

Will was praying. Muttering nothings to his God. 

Hale lost consciousness.

There needed to be a helicopter. Who was in charge of the helicopter? I’m supposed to know but I can’t even remember. All I know is the putrid smell of Hale’s blood. It smells like shit out here, too.

“You good, Mulligan? If you need to puke, dig your hole now. Jesus, there’s blood all over you.”

“We’re losing him,” Cay yelled out of nowhere from right next to me. 

“Stop yelling, Cay,” Pen snapped.

The helicopter was here. Help. The corpsman let go. A tourniquet was placed on Hale’s marred leg. He’d never keep it, if he lived.

“Not good,” a helicopter guy said. “Not likely.”

Cato put his helmet back on and I had a feeling he was hiding tears. Pen punched the ground, stood, made fists. When he was met with nothing more to punch, he kicked the ground.

Tally was on his feet in Will’s arms, but his face was dry. It was nearly empty. Will’s face was pale and tinged green, but he just kept his hands on Tally’s back.

I’d sunken into a crouch without realizing. I planted my elbows on my knees and my forehead in my hands and rocked. Cato put a bloodstained hand on my shoulder. I don’t even know how he got blood on his hands. 

Sarge stood very still for a long moment before saying in a strangled voice, “I need to go dig a fucking hole,” before he vomited all over the ground. When he straightened and wiped his mouth, he said, “That is a great example of what not to do in a warzone. Good lesson, boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i feel like i’m dragging myself through a pile of muck everyday


End file.
